ily decide. During the last days of my
mother's life we spoke together frequently of the happy past days when
we were living together on the banks of the Greenwater lake. The longing
thus inspired to look once more at the old scenes, to live for a while
again among the old associations, has grown on me since my mother's
death. I have, happily for myself, not spoken of this feeling to Sir
James or to any other person. When I am missed at the hotel, there will
be no suspicion of the direction in which I have turned my steps. To the
old home in Suffolk I resolve to go the next morning. Wandering among
the scenes of my boyhood, I can consider with myself how I may best bear
the burden of the life that lies before me.

After what I have heard that evening, I confide in nobody. For all I
know to the contrary, my own servant may be employed to-morrow as the
spy who watches my actions. When the man makes his appearance to take
his orders for the night, I tell him to wake me at six the next morning,
and release him from further attendance.

I next employ myself in writing two letters. They will be left on the
table, to speak for themselves after my departure.

In the first letter I briefly inform Sir James that I have discovered
his true reason for inviting the doctor to dinner. While I thank him for
the interest he takes in my welfare, I decline to be made the object of
any further medical inquiries as to the state of my mind. In due
course of time, when my plans are settled, he will hear from me again.
Meanwhile, he need feel no anxiety about my safety. It is one among my
other delusions to believe that I am still perfectly capable of taking
care of myself. My second letter is addressed to the landlord of the
hotel, and simply provides for the disposal of my luggage and the
payment of my bill.

I enter my bedroom next, and pack a traveling-bag with the few things
that I can carry with me. My money is in my dressing-case. Opening it, I
discover my pretty keepsake--the green flag! Can I return to "Greenwater
Broad," can I look again at the bailiff's cottage, without the one
memorial of little Mary that I possess? Besides, have I not promised
Miss Dunross that Mary's gift shall always go with me wherever I go? and
is the promise not doubly sacred now that she is dead? For a while I sit
idly looking at the device on the flag--the white dove embroidered on
the green ground, with the golden olive-branch in its beak. The innocent